The Lair

Norman Manea, Romania's most famous contemporary author, twice has survived the grip of totalitarian regimes. No stranger to exile, he mines its complexities and disorientations in this extraordinarily compelling novel, The Lair. Exile in the motherland and away from it is the shared plight of his protagonists. Nowhere at home, they move through their lives/i>

Overview

Norman Manea, Romania's most famous contemporary author, twice has survived the grip of totalitarian regimes. No stranger to exile, he mines its complexities and disorientations in this extraordinarily compelling novel, The Lair. Exile in the motherland and away from it is the shared plight of his protagonists. Nowhere at home, they move through their lives in a continuous, ever-elusive quest for national and individual identity. Manea's characters seek a place and a voice in America, only to discover that the shackles of their native totalitarian and nationalist ideologies are impossible to break.

Manea's themes and narrative approach are intricate: his style fluctuates in correspondence with the instability of his characters' lives, his story is encased within an elaborate network of allusions and paradoxes. Yet in the midst of the novel's overriding disorientation, the author establishes intersections and uncovers the universal. Through the predicaments of his perpetual outsiders, he offers a poignant assessment of the conflicts of the individual in the age of globalization. He writes with unmatched intensity and a unique sensitivity to the human tragicomedy.

Read an Excerpt

The Lair

YALE UNIVERSITY PRESS

Chapter One

A new morning, not yet opened. The long and powerful arm of a magician sets in motion the trick of the day. The yellow box stops at the curb's edge.

"Penn Station."

Above the steering wheel, the mug shot and name of the driver: Lev Boltanski.

"Are you Russian?"

"I was."

A hoarse voice. A wide face, small eyes.

"Where from?"

"Odessa."

"I thought Odessa was in Ukraine."

"The Soviet Union! Like me, Odessa is from the Soviet Union. Few people know the difference between Russia and Ukraine. You're not American."

"I am now. Just like you."

No, it's not exactly the beginning of the day ... The day had started with the stranger whose small, white hand handed him an immaculately white card with gold letters.

"I wonder if you'd agree to appear in a television commercial. The pay is very good."

And before him, the diminutive Dr. Koch. And before him, the thought of Lu, the failed attempt to see her.

The present! The present, mumbled the pedestrian. The new motto of his life: the present. That was all: the present! In his past life, there was the guilty past and the gleaming future forever deferred. Now, however ... he stood bewildered in front of the stranger who was reaching out a small, white hand to him.

"Don't be alarmed. One question, that's all. Just a question."

It was a sudden confrontation. The approach gentle, but guarded.

The intruder is about forty years old. Long, beige mohair overcoat. Immaculately white shirt. No jacket. Short, black hair; black, reckless eyes. Rounded movements, like those of a dancer or a jester. He pulls a black leather wallet out of his jeans. He unfastens the magnet clasp and pulls out the business cards. He extends an immaculately white card, with an address in gold letters: the code of happenstance.

"I wonder if you'd like to appear in a television commercial. The pay is very good."

"Me, in a commercial? What kind of commercial?"

"For Coca-Cola."

"Me? Coca-Cola?"

"As a chess player."

"Chess and Coca-Cola?"

"Yes, something like that. A man concentrating on the game. At a certain point, he reaches for the glass on the table. Coca-Cola."

"Aha," says the chess player, smiling. "No, I'm sorry. I'm no good for something like that."

"The pay is very good, as I've said. The ads go into syndication and the royalties come automatically. When you least expect it."

"No, that's not my kind of thing."

"Think it over. You have my card. Call me. If you change your mind, give me a call."

"Thank you. I told you, I don't ..."

"Never say never, as we say here. You're not American, isn't that right?"

"Why wouldn't I be? Do Americans not play chess? They drink Coca-Cola, in any case. And Pepsi. I don't, but I've played my share of chess games. When I was younger."

"See? I knew it. You look the part. Think about it. You have my number, call me. What's your name?"

"Peter."

"Peter what?"

"Peter."

"Okay, Peter, I'll remember. Give me a call."

"You look the part!" Peter the pedestrian mutters, abandoned on the corner of Broadway and 63rd Street.

That's what the producer thinks, if he's even a producer. A nice day, isn't it, Dr. Koch? James Curtis, commercial producer, offered me the ad of the day, Doctor! And so, I looked into the Curtis mirror.

A step to the left, and another step. Once off the curb, he raises his hand. Taxi! The yellow cab stops at the curb's edge.

"Penn Station."

Above the steering wheel, the mug shot and name of the driver: Lev Boltanski.

"Are you Russian?"

"I was."

A smoker's voice. A wide, soft face, small eyes, large teeth, weathered brow.

"Where from?"

"Odessa."

"I thought Odessa was in Ukraine."

"The Soviet Union! Like me, Odessa is from the Soviet Union. Few people know the difference between Russia and Ukraine. You're not American."

"I am now. Just like you ... Do you like it here on the Moon? The capital of the wanderers, lunatics, and sleepwalkers. Do you like it? A real wonder! One of 777 wonders of the world."

Lyova is silent, but seems attentive.

"Manhattan Island, bought for a song in 1626 by a Frenchman, Minuit. For twenty-four dollars! He paid the Indians in glass beads. They were growing wild strawberries and grapes here, corn, tobacco. All around there were wolves and bears and rattlesnakes."

Lev or Lyova listens, silently. He doesn't ask anything, seemingly uninterested in the gregarious passenger. He drives slowly, relaxed, atypical for the New York taxi driver. He stops at 34th Street in front of the station, simultaneously turning off the engine and the meter.

"How much?"

"Eight dollars."

The passenger rummages through his pants pockets: first the one, then the other. Next, his jacket. The two pockets of his pants, four of his jacket. He stammers; he doesn't stammer.

"Two dollars! That's all I've got."

"What's that? What are you talking about?"

The mirror above the steering wheel. Look at that, we have a mirror, Doctor. Fate gave me a real mirror.

"Did you say something?" the Soviet-Ukrainian Russian asks.

"No, nothing. But I have no money. Two dollars! That's all I've got. Let's go to the bank. I'm sorry. I didn't realize it. Don't worry, I'll pay for the trip to the bank. There's an ATM on 28th, right there on the corner. A couple of minutes from here."

Lyova peers at his passenger in the mirror, mumbles something in Russian, or Ukrainian. The taxi takes off. The bank is close by, on the corner of 28th Street. The passenger says nothing and waits. Lyova turns around, taking a closer look at the lunatic in the back seat. The mirror's not enough; he wants to see the crook's face.

"What're you doing? Not getting out?"

"I really screwed up. What a mess. My ATM card is in my wallet. I've only just realized that I left my wallet at the library. The cafeteria. Or maybe at the doctor's. I went to see a doctor."

"You lost your wallet, with your ATM card in it. Is that what you're trying to tell me?"

"I haven't lost it. I left it somewhere. At the doctor's or at the library."

"Should we go there, then? Are you going to pay for this trip, too, with money you don't have? Is that what you're trying to do? Do we go to the library, or the doctor's?"

The customer doesn't answer.

"Was the doctor a psychiatrist? Actually, it doesn't matter. Here they don't ask you what your trouble is, just if you have insurance. That's what they ask. Do you have insurance? Not what hurts or what you think hurts. He was a psychiatrist, wasn't he?"

"He wasn't a psychiatrist. I don't know where I forgot the wallet. Maybe at the library. Let's go back to the station. I'm going to miss my train."

"And the train ride is free, huh?"

"I've got a ticket already. I bought a round-trip ticket."

"Aha, so we're going back to the station. A free ride, eh?" He mumbled something in Russian, or Ukrainian. "Ah, no, I forgot; you've got two bucks. You'll give me your last two bucks to get me going. The rest in colored beads."

"I'm really sorry. Please forgive me. Look, here's my MetroCard, with twenty dollars on it. Take it. I only just bought it today."

"When? When did you buy it? Before the doctor or before the library?"

"I got it when I arrived at the station."

"What am I supposed to do with a MetroCard? I don't ride the subway."

"Maybe someone in your family can use it?"

"Ah, so now you're subsidizing my family! It's probably used up. Or there are only two dollars left on it. So I'd be better off taking the two dollars in cash. Is that what you're saying?"

"I'm not saying anything. I'm just asking you to forgive me. Believe me, I am ashamed. But things like this happen. They can happen to anyone."

"And what do we do when they happen?"

"Look, let's go to the subway station. Right here, near the bank. We can check the card on the machine. It'll show that it's not used up. Twenty dollars left on it. It'll only take a minute."

"And who's going to do that?"

"Well, I ... or no, better you. You check it. I'll wait here in the cab."

Lyova doesn't seem offended. He agrees, "Yes, sir, I'm an idiot." He returns the bag to the passenger in the back, slams the door, spits some words in Russian, or Ukrainian, and sits behind the wheel. He doesn't start the engine. He wants to calm himself. Distracted, he looks at the passenger in the mirror.

"Why were you at the doctor's? Are you sick?"

The patient doesn't answer.

"Is it serious?"

"There's nothing wrong with me."

"Why did you go to the doctor? A checkup, as Americans call it? But you're not American. What's the matter with you?"

"No, she works at that doctor's office. I go there to see her from time to time. She finds out when my appointments are and makes sure she's not around. She knew this time, too, I'd bet on it. No sign of her."

"Divorced? I mean, are you separated? You go to see her even though she doesn't want to see you? Is that how it is?"

"We're not divorced."

"Okay. Let's go to the station."

Lyova turns the key, the cab sputters, and then they are at the station. The customer descends; the bag descends.

"Wait, mister! Take your goddamn MetroCard. Take it with you."

"What's that? I thought we agreed ..."

"Beat it! Go on, get out of here!" Lyova shouts, swearing in Russian, or Ukrainian.

Crowd. Hubbub, commotion. The traveler eventually finds the timetables, then gets lost. Then finds track 9. Then the train.

The present, nothing else. Not too bad, not too bad, the train repeats in rhythm as it slowly leaves the metropolis behind.

It's not bad, it could be worse, the exhausted passenger thinks, once in his seat. The bag next to him in the empty seat by the window. He considers the brand new MetroCard. Lyova's gift. A good man, that Russian. Or, rather, that Ukrainian, er, Soviet. Solid. A solid, good man, that's the conclusion of the day, Doctor. Lu wasn't there, but it was better that way. I need to get used to it. She's already gotten used to it, probably. No, she hasn't gotten used to it. Otherwise, she'd be there. She wouldn't care. She's avoiding the past. As well as the present, of late. The present is the past; that's why she wasn't there. So that I'd have no mirror. She's sparing me the mirror, the old as well as the new. She's protecting me, the sweetheart.

No, that wasn't how the morning had started ... The irreversible chronometer of the day had been set off earlier in Dr. Koch's office.

"Have you looked in the mirror recently? I've told you before, exercise. Exercise, diet, rest! In the old days, the plowman didn't have neuroses. And neither did the forester, who worked in the woods whole days on end. The body is our home. If we don't take care of the body, life becomes miserable. Have you looked in the mirror?"

Leaden back of the neck. Pain in his arm. Shivers, cold sweats, panic.

"Lose some weight! Get some exercise, avoid stress. Your head aches? Take an aspirin. Confusion? Apathy? This time, it wasn't a crisis. Tics. Nervous tics. Neuro-vegetative, as we used to call them in the Old Country. Lazy stomach. The sedentary life."

The doctor stares at the patient, the patient stares, thoughtfully, at his shoes.

"Ulcer? Maybe. Pressure 140 over 92. That's not too bad. Pain in the back of your neck? From sitting still too much. Movement, man!

Have you looked in the mirror? Have you looked in the mirror, recently? Electrocardiogram? Money in the garbage. Your heart's not the problem. Exercise, diet, fresh air! That's the prescription. Lifestyle. Did you look in the mirror? Did you look? An elephant!"

The patient abandons the doctor's office, stumbling. He sits on a bench, in a nearby park.

Friday, after lunch. The rush before the break. The nine-to-fivers hurrying across the week's river, toward the weekend. Before anyone is aware of what's happening, another seven days and nights blow by. Spring's uncertain sky; the doctor is there. Avicenna-Koch! A mirror, what do you know! The patient waves the image away. The trio of puppeteers in the park juggles burlesque marionettes on the ends of long, delicate fingers. Thundering music. Alleys to the left and right. Passersby of all ages and ethnicities. The doctor among them. The kaleidoscope of the city spins, with little Koch in the center of it all.

The river moves gently to the left of the train. You never step twice in the same primordial water. This is what the passenger sees out the window, along the length of the train tracks: water that doesn't grow old and is never the same water. Nor the air. Nor the fluid, therapeutic horizon.

Past, present, future, time at one with itself, was that the horizon? Mild waters, moments aging, rot and dejection. The water grows slowly, quietly, comfortingly, over the sleeping passenger. The conductor taps him gingerly on the shoulder. The train is stopped in the station.

He quickly gathers his bag, his jacket. He descends; he's on the platform; look at him, poor lost sucker, in the station, gazing at the wide and quiet river in front of him.

Oof, he's arrived! The empty platform, the mountains in the distance, the river only a stone's throw away. A clear, cold afternoon. The beginning of the world. He doesn't yet have a clue how close the end is. The end of his world.

The chronometer swallows the seconds of the armistice.

* * *

Peter appeared suddenly, as though in a dream, or in a nightmare.

"Peter. Gaspar. Mynheer. Mynheer Peter Gaspar here."

A voice from the void. Professor Gora was no longer sure where he was. He took note of the walls lined with books and remained silent. He was in no mood to answer; it was an aggressive surprise.

Peter! Was it Mynheer Pieter Peeperkorn, the popular protagonist from the great novel he'd read decades ago, once the novel of his world? Or Peter Gaspar, dubbed Mynheer, from the socialist literary café in the Balkans?

Nothing was certain, except for the bookshelves, those in front of him and the ones in his mind.

Young Gaspar's only publication from the years of "legalized bliss," as he used to call his former utopia, was titled Mynheer. The story behind the nickname was thin and bizarre; chance had conspired with the library.

How had Peter Gaspar found the phone number of Professor Augustin Gora, who had vanished into the great United States of America?

"Where are you? Have you also made it to the other world?"

The ghost confirmed that, yes, he'd come some time ago, as a doctorate fellow at New York University.

Meet the Author

Norman Manea is Francis Flournoy Professor of European Culture and writer-in-residence at Bard College. Deported from his native Romania to a Ukrainian concentration camp during World War Two, he was again forced to leave Romania in 1986, no longer safe under an intolerant Communist dictatorship. Since arriving in the West he has received many important awards, including, in 2016, Romania’s highest distinction, the the Presidential Order "The Romanian Star" in the highest level, of Great Officer. His work has been translated into more than twenty languages. He lives in New York City. Oana Sânziana Marian is a poet, translator, photographer, and filmmaker.